


From the Same Cloth

by Latter_alice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 02:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21029087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latter_alice/pseuds/Latter_alice
Summary: Mesopotamia: Tower of BableCrowley's sense of self-preservation was never the best, he would openly admit that. If it was he might not even be a demon. Well, he didn't really think that. But his lack of self-preservation seemed to have a theme in the few hundred years since Eden. That theme continues when he sees a particular angel fall in the sand.Some part of him thinks it won't be the last time he sees him fall, either.





	From the Same Cloth

**Author's Note:**

> written for an inktober prompt. It was writter for day 16: First Times, but fits just fine with 14:Miracles too, and I dont have the time to edit it anymore so may as well post it today instread of waiting

The sand was a monstrous thing.

The way it clung to your skin in the pounding heat, snuck its way into the folds of sandals as a person sloshed through, never  _ quite _ getting it all off in the times you could find a place to wash up. 

Hellish. He almost wished he could take credit for it, somehow.

_ God’s wonderful creation _ . Crowley scowled and slapped his black sandal against the side of the dingy stone platform that only passed as a bed due to the thin, cotton lining. His own skin was dotted with the small pebbles, and was reddened by the irritated  _ rubbing _ and friction it caused with every step of since he’d arrived. He slammed the shoe again. The pockets of brown didn't budge.

He shoved his sandal back on. The loose dirt scratched hot against his already inflamed skin, and he, very briefly, considered miracling away the lot of it. 

The hunt  _ reeked _ . Dirty, old water slipped through the huts mud and straw roof and coated the place in an invasive moisture. Little splotches of dirt and wet sand and littered the floor, getting caught on uneven dips in the floor with loose water. The smell of mildew and made his insides recoil initially.

Not his first choice. Or third. But, this was a last-minute request from Lord Beelzebub themself.

_ “You  _ will _ go to the tower and help  _ demolish  _ it, Crowley. The apple was genius, but you haven't done shit since.” Hellfire blazed up and around them as their words spat out, as if it was bending to Beelzebub's emotions itself. Their blue eyes looked dead. “There will be angels. End them.  _ Stop  _ using your hellish powers for inconsequential things, Crowley” _

_ Request _ was generous. As was the notion that he’d  _ follow _ said request.

He glanced at the crumbling hole in the wall that passed for a window, the soft sound of bustling people and animals was a distant murmur, but there nonetheless. A stark tower shot from the sand in on the other side of the rundown town. He squinted at the visible heat waves as he peered, tried to look through their distortion. 

It’s black bricks looked warped, as if God Herself had reached a hand down to the spike to twist it. Which, after today, wouldn’t be too far off the mark. The forces of Hell didn’t much care for the humans trying to kiss the sky, to speak to their maker. 

Ridiculous.

A single white dot struggled and trudged through the hills of parchment colored hills.

A familiar dot. 

Aziraphale's uncannily white tunic jostled in the heavy wind, and he stumbled over the ground as it shifted and retreated from him. Sand doared in all directions, like a miniature tornado. Another reason to hate the confounded invention. He tugged on a camel. Though, from the way he leaned towards his companion, it seemed the creature was supporting  _ him _ more so than being led anywhere.

And then the angel collapsed.

Crowley cursed under his breath. He snapped, consequences of frivolous miracles be damned.

The world shifted.

The difference was stark. The sun beat down on his skin, uninhibited by the lack of clouds. Nothing compared to Hell, but the heat wasn’t  _ not _ nothing at all. Not walking weather.

The camel bucked and jumped to its hind legs before darting off. Crowley dropped to his knees and took Aziraphale's torso in his lap. He slipped to the ground, the friction of the sand felt like razor blades on his knees. Aziraphale was limp, but his face tightened at the change of light as Crowley's body blocked the sun.

He grabbed his arm, overturning and examining. Where the sun had touched, it left a bright red, almost glowing, burn. His soft peach skin was coated in the blemish. It peeled back and flaked. Aziraphale was like jello, his hand barely twitched as Crowley’s fingers glazed over the burn.

His own breaths were ragged as the sun beat against him, threatening to crack and mark his skin as well while he nestled Aziraphale into his lap. His head was limp and lazy, no reaction to the change at all.  _ Everywhere _ was burnt. He was a puddle of a man. Crowley slipped two fingers under his ear and pressed. Little, dainty thumps brushed his fingers.

Aziraphale flinched as he slid his hand back. Crowley tensed.

“Cra-Crawly?” His voice sounded like the desert itself. Empty. Drained. Ravished by the only elements available- sand and sun. He looked pale, despite the sun-streaked face.

This stupid angel is going to die. Of a blasted heat stroke, sun poisoning, exhaustion-  _ something. _

“Did you  _ walk here _ ?” He hissed.

He tried to lift a hand, but it fell back to the ground before it could touch anything else. Aziraphale grunted, a soft pained thing, but no words come.

He grit his teeth. Even attempting healing would get him in trouble. If he even  _ could _ .

“Now is  _ not _ the time to discorporate, Aziraphale.”

No words, just an unconscious curl into the demon. It was just a fraction of a movement. Crowley, despite himself, felt his throat tighten.

Aziraphale looked so…  _ small _ , with his head pushed against Crowley's stomach, his torso limp on his lap. 

A huff of bewildered air knocked itself out of him. He shook his head. How long it would take Hell to kill him for treason at this rate? Or for this- this indignant angel to fall too? Giving away holy gifts from God to the first sinners, amusing some demon’s, not even just any demon really, the  _ originator of human sin’s _ whims. Humming to his own tune.

That tune was similar, dangerously similar, to his own. His fall might have come from asking questions- deconstructing the poor logic of their once shared world, but Aziraphale did the same thing nonverbally. His own morals shined through. It didn’t matter what Heaven would really want, if he could get away with it. He’d only seen Aziraphale a handful of times and could already tell that much.

Aziraphale shivered, and his forehead pressed into Crowley. An angel on the fast track to falling and a treacherous demon. A match only Earth could make.

At least treachery was the name of his lots game, was it not?

He snapped.

The relief the shake gave from the heat was instant. 

Crowley's chest heaved, his feet staggered forward and his knees gave. His hand narrowly grabbed the stone beside before he hit floor. Breath pushed out of his lungs in a hurry, and he could, now that the sun and heat was away, properly feel how his tunic stuck to his back. He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose before straightening up.

  
  


Aziraphale’s tunic crinkled and hiked as he laid on the thin cotton lining. His limbs looked uncomfortably arranged, and his breath was ragged but more defined than outside.

Crowley didn’t know where to begin. Demons don't heal. He wasn't even sure what was  _ wrong. _

His skin was still on the razor's edge of glowing. The sun had done a number on him, and his internal temperature had to be through the roof.

He was practically  _ burning _ -

Ah. He leaned down to the angel. “I  _ know _ burning,” he whispered.

He imagined the fire, the sun's flames that did this to Aziraphale, as the hellfire that burned him when he changed. It was a thing that coursed through your veins, any organs that could be there eaten alive, every inch of skin popped and peeled and-

And for a moment, he saw what Aziraphale would've looked like. Still could. His skin would be bleached, vampiric in nature. His hair more unruly than now. Its edges would have been frayed. Wings as black as his, and his eyes-

His stomach dropped. 

He imagined that he could somehow  _ lift _ it into the air, the burning heat, the fire in his veins, and dissipate it like smoke. He snapped both hands.

A noticeable sizzle cracked in the air, and a cloud of steam rose from Aziraphale. He groaned and clutched his head as he curled into himself.

Crowley just stared. Aziraphale's skin was unblemished. The angel's limbs twitched and he shifted. Demons could heal. The likely look Beezlebub would give him if they looked at the latest miracle report would surely kill him on the spot.

Aziraphale groaned as he pushed himself up to sit. His head slumped more than turned, over to Crowley. He shivered.

“Crawley?” 

“ _ Crowley.”  _ He bent down and snatched a carton of water and tossed it at Aziraphale. “Drink.”

“Ah yes,” his smile was genuine, but colored with a slight bit of pain. Perhaps he wasn't the best healer around. He took the flask, “Pardon.”

“Did you  _ walk _ here?” He repeated the question from earlier again, the venom in the words renewed now that he wasn’t actively dying.

Aziraphale bit his lip and seemed to find a patch of moss on the wall quite interesting. “Perhaps,” he said with a sigh. Crowley glared, and Aziraphale continued with a hurry when he turned to look. ‘Heaven is being  _ very _ strict about miracles! I,” his brow set hard, and his chin snapped up, “I had no  _ choice  _ in the matter.”

The familiar moral high ground. Aziraphale always gave more than any other angel, but he found his tough spots, usually any that directly questioned  _ his _ place in the scheme of things.

“Yeah, I get that,” he scoffed, “But  _ still _ . You almost died!”

Any pretense of superiority flattened. His widened eyes dropped to his hands, and then trailed up his arms. “I-” his fingers brushed his face. All breath stopped.

“I was- “ Aziraphale's eyes were a question when they returned to Crowley, “I was  _ very  _ badly burned.”

“Mhm.” Crowley kept his lips in a straight line.

“Likely had a heat stroke.”

He nodded.

“Hadn’t had water in  _ days _ .” He took a drink at the self-reminder.

Crowley sighed. “Shouldn’t be unsurprising but sure, sure.”

“I should have discorporated.”

“Your welcome.” He tried to make it drip with sarcasm, but the reminder cut the words with an edge of bewilderment tingled with fear that was far too honest.

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment more before his eyes dropped back to his skin. ‘You  _ healed _ me.”

Crowley was, if nothing else, very good at questioning things, deconstructing it, and he could feel it, see it, in Aziraphale. The way the gears in his mind seemed to turn, trying to fit in this bit of information into whatever moral code he’d tried to develop under heavens thumb. Crowley said nothing.

“I didn't know demons could  _ do _ that.”

Aziraphale's eyes looked so earnest, like he was seeing him for the first time again, except in this reality, he was the angel. Something to be marveled.

And it made him a bit sick, gripped his throat and did something of an ache in his chest. Everything in  _ that _ face was the exact opposite of what Hell would think, would want to do. His fist clenched.

He clenched his fights and sneered. “I'm sure downstairs will love it too,” he scoffed and shook his head, “Especially on an angel,” any venom faded. “What are you even  _ doing _ here, Aziraphale?”

He scowled. “I’ve been sent here to help oversee demolition. I've decided to do that by consulting the people before Heaven separates them.”

Of course he’d stop by to ignore the fight that was surely to break loose just to comfort some humans. He’d intended to do some damage control himself, stick to the shadows, but Aziraphale just screamed  _ magnet for trouble _ . 

If an angel saw him not helping, or fighting, they tell him to, and he just… would.

His shoulder slump. "Aziraphale  _ no. _ Demons are coming, they want it gone too.”

The pose of moral righteousness was back. His shoulders puffed out, posture straightened. “I’m an  _ angel _ . I’m more than capable of handling a few demons.”

“I have  _ direct  _ orders to kill any of your lot I see-” the look of disgust on his face was immediate, “ _ Not _ that I  _ intend _ to. I have enough sense to see trouble. This silly little tower to talk to god isn't worth some little skirmish.”

“As I said, I’m capable of handling a few demons-”

“LIke you handle me? Do you not understand they’re all bloodthirsty lunatics?”

He hadn’t seen the angel fight, and he didn’t care to imagine it.

Aziraphale deflated. “No, Crowley. It doesn't matter,” his lips pulled up, but it didn't look like a smile. “The humans here will  _ need _ me. I won't fight, but I must help.”

_ “Why?” _

He shifted, and crawled out of the bed. His initial step turned into a stumbled. Crowley grabbed his arm. When their eyes met, Aziraphale's were tainted with the beginnings of tears

“Because I know what it's like to long for her voice to return as well. And they won't care about keeping families together during the separation.”

“She- She doesn't talk to  _ any _ of you?”

“Not a word.”

The realization hung in the air between them. He dropped his hand from Azirapahle's arm. All he manages is a head shake.

“Well, that sounds like a bloody terrible idea. Your little  _ friends _ have a thing for vindication,” he picked the canteen up from the matt, “ _ Holier than thou.” _

Aziraphale scoffed, and snatched the offered container, “Well we  _ are. _ ”

Crowley's eyes could've rolled out of his head, with the slightest bit more effort, “Not with my kind. With  _ each other. _ ”

He’d been an angel once, too. Remembered very clearly how Heaven was. Strikingly similar to Hell, besides having working plumping and different color scheme. So he also remembered how the chain of command tended to treat one another, and that was with a leader.

Aziraphale took a drink, and Crowley continued. “You should still leave. The humans will be okay. I’ve gotten along fine without anything She has to give.”

_ Angels are from Heaven.  _

Some part of his mind thought of Aziraphale's white wings shielding him from the first rain. How they probably had the first laugh together in history standing on the wall. How their little run-ins had been by far the most interesting part of the job so far. 

_ Almost  _ anything, perhaps.

Aziraphale's eyes went wide, “I do apologise. I’d forgotten that was something lost, in-in-”

“In the fall.”

Aziraphale bit his lip and stood in silence. Crowley could feel the question, see the timid curiosity bubble on his face, and sighed. Given an infinite amount of time that was bound to come up, eventually. 

He steadied himself. Perhaps something he could say on the matter would get him to leave, or be more agreeable to it.

“If you have questions, I won’t be the one to punish any asking.”

It was silent for a long moment as the angel deliberated. His fingers fidgeted with the canteen. He swallowed. “Is that all you lost?” his voice was quiet. Unsure.

He could hear it, how the question must’ve felt for him to even ponder. LIke he was the one asking to bite the apple. Sympathy for the devil. 

The only decent angel, the only one that would’ve given that sword away, the only one that would have a friendly conversation with some strange demon, show  _ kindness _ , the only one that seemed to even deserve the title, and all he could think about was how long it’d take to get him cast aside too.

The demons weren’t good either. They were mostly a group of misfits with mommy issues, following some other flawed system. But at least in Hell, he wasn't filled with a subtle fear in asking a question.

Crowley caressed the canteen, gently removed it from the angel's grip, and sat it on the floor. “Are you asking me if it hurt?”

He stammered, “I- you don't have to tell me anything, it's awfully intrusive-”

He gave a small laugh, “It’s fine.”

He took a deep breath, and thought of his wings, tried to feel their flutter, will them out of his back and pop into existence. He winced at the subtle, smoldering burn the act always coursed along his shoulders.

The room wasn't very large. His wing practically consumed them, encapsulated them both inside since the lack of space demanded they curve or be crinkled, and now was not the time to sacrifice style. Aziraphale was a breath away from touching his feathers, a slight move in any direction and he’d have to.

“The first thing I noticed was how off the feathers felt. And then they started burning,” Aziraphale studied the wings himself, “It was just a sting at first. Like a nip from a bee. But it got hotter and  _ hotter _ ,” he sucked in a breath. “It was like the tips had been set on fire, and I could feel each individual feather catch, burn, and charr.” 

Aziraphale looked at the wings in wonder, probably trying to decide if they really  _ were _ made of charr. “You can touch it, if you’d like.”

Soft fingers brushed against his wing. It felt like a hand running through his hair, except the source was different. He tried not to shudder. There was a point to be made.

“Each one burned. Some humans break a person's fingers for thievery here. Similar I’d imagine. Though there's more feathers, and they don't use fire to do the job." Aziraphlae's hand dropped.

“I’m sorry.” His words come out as a brush of wind more than, quiet and gentle

And that's why he would fall too. A part of him was concerned he’d see it happen in the next ten minutes or so. “Don't be. Not even the worst part.” He took a deep breath. “That came after. When the wings were done, I started to literally fall, and the fire that finished them off, oh I don't know,” the angel gazed at him, entranced. His eyes didn't move. 

“It felt like it entered my blood. Infected my  _ holy _ essence, which I suppose it did. Demon and all. Everything it touched boiled and blistered. Long before I hit the sulfur, the only thing left was despair.” 

A long moment passed. “At the time I wished it killed me like it does angels.”

The angel's hand rose back up brushed his finely kept feathers, and he couldn't help the shiver it gave him. When Aziraphale's hand dropped, he retracted his wings back in. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Crowley didn't press.

The dam breaks anyway, “Can I see?”

He didn’t have to ask what, and just turns his back, and let the angel have whatever it is he wants. 

Aziraphale untangled his tunic with slow precision, it drooped to his shoulder. The air, despite the heat, felt cool against his shoulder blades.

He knew there had to be scars, the area was difficult for him to feel, and mirrors were surprisingly few and far between in Hell, but the space always felt hot after pulling his wings in or out of existence. He’d seen other demons shoulders, once or twice. Some had slight discolored patches. Some had ripples of flesh, tattered scar tissue that was painful to look at, let alone what it must feel like.

But Crowley wasn't sure what was back there exactly. And he felt very naked, in the unsureness.

He cradled the excess cloth in his hands before it fell further than below his chest, least it fall off completely and send the angel off running after all.

Aziraphale’s fingers were like strokes of ice against the feverish scars where his wings met with his body, and Hell had entered his blood. His breath caught in his throat, and goosebumps littered his skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he could feel the breath of the words ghost across his skin. He made a noncommittal noise in favour of responding.

Fingers slid across him once more before his tunic was lead back over his shoulders.

He turned, and with the carefulness one might use while peering at the sun, he glanced at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale's cheeks were pink, a lovely color that was somewhere between peach and a cloud at sunset. His eyes were still wide, looking at Crowley like something he wasn't again.

He looked at Aziraphale’s intertwined hands instead. They were held together so tightly his knuckles turned white. Crowley could only imagine  _ why _ , since he knew better than to ask. Wasn’t really sure if he could at the moment, honestly.

“Thank you,” he took a deep breath and peeked up, “That must have been," he considered his next words, "very  _ d _ ifficult for you. I can't imagine-"

"You  _ think? _ Difficult is getting you to listen to me. Falling, though?" He ran a hand over his hair. " _ I _ got over it. But the others... They want you to feel it.”

Crowley snapped, and a small ball of fire floated above his palm. He didn't need the real deal to prove the point. “A little hellfire is all it takes."

"I see."

" _ Do _ you?" He spits. Aziraphale looks vaguely… hurt. The disappointment, the sense of self-defeat scribbled its way onto his face. He clenched his hand to snuff the flame. "I'd just  _ appreciate _ it if you weren't here. I can't help you tonight."

Silence stretched between them for a moment. Aziraphale's shoulders slumped.

“I suppose I do. Your concern is awfully nice-”

“I am  _ not  _ nice,” he sighed. “But, if you’d allow me to  _ tempt you _ ,” he leaned in with words, “to a meal somewhere. Well, I'd get to say I tempted an angel and  _ you'd _ get to steer clear of the legions of the damned.”

He wouldn’t  _ actually _ say that, of course. The angel's name would never leave his tongue in that infernal place willingly. He had some sense of self-preservation, despite his choice in company. Aziraphale’s pursed lips were enough of a warning against it as well.

“I  _ would  _ like to avoid of Sandalphon.” He tried to smile, "I don't suppose you know any good shops on the other side of town? It appears my camel went missing. I'm sure Heaven will understand the need to resupply." Words tumbled over one another, almost a babble. His cheeks were pink.

Crowley hadn't realised how tense his own shoulders had been until then. He let out a relieved breath. "I'd like it a great deal if you were a bit farther than that, angel."

The title toppled from his lips as effortlessly as the rest of his words. A title was disingenuous though, he knew that the moment he thought it. But it would be a good defense, if needed.

Aziraphale’s face flushed. "Very well." He bit his lip for a moment. "But only if you accompany me," he  _ actually _ smiled then and peeked at him, mischief in his eye, "you wily serpent."

His breath caught. The way Aziraphale spoke made it sound like just as much of a title as his little  _ angel _ tagline. A warmth crept up his neck. If this was an attempt at tempting him, Aziraphale was already frighteningly good at it.

"Of- of course."

They slipped from town without incident, and somewhere in between recovering some of Aziraphale’s lost supplies and finding a spot of lunch, Crowley decided that if this angel was going to fall, he would've in Eden.

And if he was wrong, Crowley knew the other angels wouldn’t care, but he did suppose it’d be a shame if Heaven, with all its faults, lost the last good thing it seemed to have. And he certainly didn’t think Aziraphale would get very far before Hell discarded someone as devilishly angelic as him too.

Either way, between the fact that he was even in the angel’s company to begin with and the oddly fond glances he was given any time Aziraphale thought he might not notice, he was certain he’d find out.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed <3


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